How About It?
by Joodiff
Summary: S4, B/G. Sequel to "You and Me, Babe". Boyd discovers sobriety is painful... Complete. Enjoy!


**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

**A/N:** _This is the sequel to "You and Me, Babe", a B/G fic I uploaded here almost exactly a year ago. Ever since then I have been faithfully promising Never Stop Believing in Love that having got Boyd horrendously drunk as she requested, I'd sober him up again. ;)_

* * *

…**How About It?**

by Joodiff

* * *

Barely half-awake and thoroughly caught up in a dense fog of disorientation, Boyd's first conscious thought is that there's something very wrong with his bed. His bed is large, expensive and comfortable. His bed is one of the very few utterly selfish indulgences he absolutely refuses to compromise on, and yet it suddenly seems to be too uncomfortable, too lumpy and far, far too narrow. Confused, he tries shifting position, but it doesn't help. In fact, the only thing moving achieves is setting off a howling, jaw-clenching pain in his back and a grinding, all-encompassing ache in his head. Suddenly extremely nauseous, he opens his eyes and is greeted by the shadowy sight of Grace Foley's cosy living room.

The unexpected discomfort abruptly makes sense. He's not in his bed, he's sprawled out on her sofa, and from the few stray, uninspiring shafts of light filtering in through small gaps in the curtains it would appear to be morning.

Then he remembers, and it isn't just the pain in his back, the growling headache or the uncomfortable swell of sickness in his gut that makes him groan aloud. Boyd does not feel well. Not at all. And the very last thing he needs is the rapidly encroaching tide of complete and utter mortification.

Brief snatches of the previous nights' conversation – and much more – swirl tauntingly through the thick pain in his head. His first instinct, hurriedly suppressed, is to whimper pathetically and bury his head under the soft cushions until the awful truth goes away. A tough sort of man, it's not in Boyd's nature to whimper, so he shuts his eyes tightly again instead, and wonders whether the clammy sweat now breaking out across his entire body is entirely due to the monumental hangover that's rapidly taking hold.

He's so lost in his abject misery that he doesn't hear the slight movement that precedes, "Boyd? Coffee?"

Grace's voice. Clear, pointed and definitely somewhat amused. He doesn't open his eyes. Isn't actually sure that after last night he'll ever be able to look at her again. He tries to clear his throat, manages to mumble, "Water…"

"Headache?" Grace asks in a tone that sounds solicitous, but very definitely isn't. "You're looking a bit peaky, you know."

She's enjoying it. She's bloody _enjoying_ it.

Well, of course she is.

Very carefully, Boyd turns onto his side, his back firmly to her and to the room. "Go away, Grace. Leave me alone to die in peace."

-oOo-

When he wakes for the second time he's less disorientated, but considerably more self-conscious. Sobriety is a harsh mistress. His head's still thumping, his stomach's still churning and the acute pressure on his bladder is heading towards unbearable. Whether Boyd likes it or not, he's going to have to attempt a foray upstairs – damned house only has one bathroom. At least he knows where it is. Cautiously, he edges himself upright into a seated position. The pain in his back has settled to a resentful grumble, but every tiny movement still sends hammer-blows of agony through his skull. When he opens his eyes, not much seems to have changed. The curtains are still closed, the radio's still playing softly – who the _fuck_ wants to listen to Mahler at some unholy hour on a Sunday morning? – and he seems to be on his own again.

As Boyd hauls himself wretchedly to his feet, he wonders if his accidental hostess has simply gone out for the day and abandoned him. It's tempting to hope that she has. Maybe he can call a cab and quietly slink home unnoticed, and they can studiously never mention _any_ of this ever again.

The stairs might just as well be the north face of the Eiger, his ascent is so slow and so painful, but when he reaches the summit at least the bathroom door is slightly ajar, and he stumbles towards it gratefully, reeling against the doorframe as he goes. Boyd is not in a good state, and not for the first time in his life he flirts with the idea of complete abstinence. He can smell the whiskey, still has its sour aftertaste in his mouth. Once his bladder has been attended to, he eyes the shower covetously, but the idea of having to get re-dressed in yesterday's crumpled, sweaty clothes to make his sorrowful way home is just too repugnant. Instead, he starts to fill the basin with tepid water and stares bleakly at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. He barely recognises the drawn, pallid man who looks hollowly back at him.

The hangover, he will survive. Boyd is fairly sure of that. Dying might currently seem like a preferable option, but the headache and the nausea will pass eventually. What he's not so sure he's going to be able to survive are the embarrassing memories that keep maliciously prickling at him. Some of those memories are – thankfully – far foggier than others, but he's very well aware of who said and _did_ what, and of the potentially lethal emotional and professional minefield in which he now finds himself. Sober, none of it makes the perfect sense it did under the influence of far too much whiskey.

He plunges his head into the water, and though it does nothing to ease his headache, it certainly chases away the last of the numbing sleepiness. Surfacing again, Boyd lets the water pour from his hair and beard for a moment before re-submerging. Drowning himself isn't really a viable option, he decides, but he keeps his head firmly under the water for several more long seconds before lifting his head again. Marginally refreshed, he peers cautiously at his reflection again. He still looks depressingly old and haggard, but some of the deathly pallor has retreated, and he doesn't feel quite as sick, even if the grim headache shows no sign of retreating.

He's an idiot.

_Well done, Peter,_ he tells himself, reaching for a towel. _Get hideously drunk, forget all about professional integrity and let your big stupid mouth spectacularly run away with you. Well bloody done._

Damp and depressed, Boyd unlocks the bathroom door and heads back out onto the small landing. One of the other doors is firmly closed, the other is slightly open. Front bedroom. Grace's room? Maybe. Resolutely, he paces back towards the stairs.

Her voice says, "Boyd…?"

Front bedroom. He freezes, fighting the ridiculous impulse to flee, then reluctantly replies, "Yeah?"

"Are you all right?"

_Depends on what you mean by 'all right'..._ He says, "Hangover."

"No, really?"

The palpable amusement sets Boyd's teeth on edge. "Funny."

Sounding a little more sympathetic Grace offers, "I've got some painkillers in here somewhere if that would help…?"

Painkillers good. Front bedroom bad. He sighs. "Chuck 'em out, will you?"

"Oh, for goodness' sake… Stop hovering about out there and come and get them."

_Actually, I'd rather walk naked into a lion's den... _"Maybe I'll just – "

"Boyd."

He's not going to win this one. He's far too hung-over, and the wretched woman knows exactly how he feels about her. Because he bloody _told_ her. And then kissed her several times just to make absolutely sure she got the message. Idiot. Though he's fairly sure he remembers a certain amount of highly physical mutual interest being demonstrated on the sofa before she finally went out to the kitchen to make coffee… which must have been about the same time he ignominiously passed out. _Oh, this just gets better and better…_

Stubbornly, Boyd hesitates by the bedroom door. "Are you decent?"

The answer is a loud and very derisive snort followed by, "Just get in here."

Bedroom. One of. Surprisingly good size, but dominated by a large double-bed that immediately looks very tempting. Feminine, but no chintz, thank God. Very… Grace-like. Shelves of books and knick-knacks. Photographs and idiosyncratic keepsakes cluttered on almost every flat surface. Mainly antique furniture, but all simple, elegant stuff. The room doesn't actually offend Boyd's aesthetic sensibilities, even if it lacks the clean, stark lines that he favours. The large bed is occupied. Inevitably. Grace is propped against a generous quantity of pillows, bedcovers modestly drawn up, and her expression is very definitely amused.

"Never let me drink Scotch ever again," he growls at her from the doorway.

"What, until tonight, you mean?"

"Please. Just the thought of it…" Boyd says with a shudder that is in no way feigned. His stomach roils uneasily and for a moment he thinks he's going to have to bolt straight back out to the bathroom. The sourness quickly settles, however, allowing him to concentrate entirely on the throbbing pain behind his eyes.

Grace shakes her head at him. "You never learn, do you? Look at the state of you."

She has a point, he grudgingly concedes to himself. There's no doubt he's not looking – or feeling – his best. Grimly, he asks, "Pain-killers…?"

She leans over, rummages in the top drawer of the wooden bedside cabinet and eventually holds up a small plastic strip of anonymous tablets. When it becomes quite clear that she's not going to diplomatically throw him a life-line, Boyd advances cautiously. Everything's slightly out of kilter, slightly… not the way it should be. Not only because of his truly unspeakable hangover. Too many lines crossed, too many unguarded words spoken. Too many of his words from the previous night echoing mockingly in his head – an unrelenting and unpleasant torment.

Grace is watching him intently, her expression somewhere between tolerant amusement and gentle perplexity. Boyd takes the proffered strip of tablets from her, pops a couple out into his palm and dry-swallows them hurriedly. Not the most pleasant experience, and when he realises she's holding out a glass of water he takes it gratefully and downs most of it in several rapid gulps. She says, "For heaven's sake – sit down before you _fall_ down."

He's lost the will to argue. Meekly, Boyd does as he's told, subsiding heavily on the edge of the bed and leaning forward to resting his forearms on his denim-clad thighs. Bare floorboards, he realises absentmindedly. Old, dark and deeply impregnated with years of polish. Brightly-coloured rug. Ethnic. The vibrant woven zig-zags threaten to start strobing in front of his eyes so he goes back to staring at the floorboards. Much safer. The sudden silence is a loaded one, heavy with significance. He clears his throat, says gruffly, "Look, you know I'm not good at this sort of thing, but… I'm sorry, okay? About last night."

"I see," her calm voice replies from behind him. "Which part of last night? Arriving on my doorstep absolutely plastered, giving my Scotch a damn good hammering and then passing out on my sofa, or…?"

Boyd winces. Carefully ignoring the unspoken option, he shrugs slightly. "Any or all of the above?"

"You want me to make this easy for you, don't you?"

_Yeah, thanks for that moment of clairvoyance, Grace… make me feel even better about myself, why don't you?_

Evidently deciding he's not going to reply, she continues, "Well, I suppose I should be grateful you didn't actually start singing."

_Oh, God… Please let this be some fucking awful surreal nightmare… And if it's not, just kill me now… _Boyd closes his eyes again, more in another valiant attempt to quell the pounding headache than in an attempt to block the world out. He really does feel wretchedly sorry for himself, which Grace undoubtedly fully realises – and is quite prepared to thoroughly enjoy. In all honesty, he can't really find it in his heart to blame her after his… performance… the preceding evening. He still wishes rather more of what transpired could be decently fogged by the whiskey's grim legacy.

"Boyd…?"

Not without reluctance, he risks reopening his eyes. The dark wooden floor, like the humiliating memory of the night before, is still there. And so is Grace. He doesn't need to look round at her to know she is gazing steadily at him. He may be an idiot, but he isn't a coward. It's time to start facing up to the regrettable truth. He flexes his shoulders slightly, trying to ease the lingering overnight stiffness. Perhaps the hangover's got more of a hold of him than he realises, because he hears himself saying, "I meant everything I said last night. Maybe I shouldn't have said it, and maybe it's best forgotten about, but I meant it."

It seems she's really not prepared to let him get away with any of it easily because she asks, "Specifically?"

Boyd only barely resists the impulse to groan. "C'mon, Grace, give me a break… You _know_ what I'm talking about."

"You said an awful lot of things last night, Boyd. I never realised you could be quite so garrulous."

"I was _drunk_," he complains. It's the only excuse he has for his uncharacteristic behaviour and it's very definitely starting to wear rather thin. The morning-after-the-night-before seems to be steadily going from bad to worse and all he really wants to do is stretch out next to her on the wide bed and go back to sleep until he feels vaguely human again. Even better if he can go to sleep with her arms around him and his head resting on her shoulder. And that's a disconcerting thought. Though not altogether unwelcome. Boyd sighs, massages his temples gently for a moment. He tries, "I'm not having the best morning of my life here, Grace. I'm sorry, all right? For turning up drunk, for behaving like a total idiot… whatever you like… just… for the love of God, take pity on me, will you? Tell me to stay or tell me to bugger off – but show a little mercy, eh?"

There's a moment of silence from behind him, followed by a quiet and only slightly wry, "All right. Cards on the table?"

"Cards on the table," he agrees, absurdly grateful for her sudden apparent compliance.

"Alcohol lowers one's inhibitions. Makes it far easier to say… things… that are normally kept suppressed."

"Don't I know it," he mutters ruefully. "Grace – "

"I haven't finished," she tells him with some asperity. "I told you last night, we need to _talk_. Doubly so if you're actually serious about anything you said – or did."

Boyd almost winces, remembering all too clearly the first kiss. And the next. And the one after that. Irritably defensive, he growls, "And I told _you_ – I'm no damn good at talking about… this sort of thing."

Grace waits for a few pointed heartbeats before inquiring, "So what do you actually want, Boyd?"

Finally, he shifts position enough to look at her without having to turn his aching head too far. She's still watching him closely, but her expression is earnest now; earnest and just a little resigned. She looks, he thinks suddenly, like a woman who's watching opportunities she never dared dream of slip slowly and inexorably away from her. Like a woman who's ready to be determinedly brave and defiant in a very quiet, controlled sort of way. He's surprised by just how much the realisation hurts him. But his patience is ebbing as he searches for something – anything – to say in response. "I told you that, _too_. Christ, Grace, you love making things as complicated as possible, don't you? It's not bloody rocket science – either you're interested in giving things a go or you're not."

Her expression hardens a fraction. "Oh, and it's really that simple, is it?"

Bullish to the last, he pushes on with, "It is to _me_. I like you, Grace; I like you a lot. And believe it or not, I think we could have something good together if we tried – and if you stopped trying to treat the whole damn thing as a fucking academic exercise in whatever."

Her lips quirk momentarily in an almost-smile. One of the cool, derisive variety. "Not the most romantic speech I've ever heard, Boyd."

He can't help glowering. "Yeah, well I'm tired. Additionally, I have the hangover from hell and you're being… difficult."

"'Difficult'?"

"Oh, look… I'm not a bad guy, Grace. I may have my faults – "

"Surely not?" she interjects, one sardonic eyebrow slightly raised.

" – but I'm really not a bad guy. "

"Meaning I should cut you some slack and actually listen to your bumbling attempts to tell me how you feel?"

The blue eyes watching him are cool and clear but they are amused, too. And more than a little long-suffering. It's a look he's very used to. Though in very different circumstances. He falls back on a sullen grumble of, "Well… yeah. Something like that."

"All right."

He frowns, taken aback. "What?"

The note of patience in her voice is quite, quite deliberate. "Make me an offer, Boyd. But I warn you, it needs to be considerably better than drunkenly slurring 'You and me, babe, how about it?' and then expecting me to fall into your arms."

Not one of his finest moments, admittedly. One of those things that – through an alcohol-induced haze – seemed like a very good idea at the time, but in hindsight is almost certainly going to haunt him forever. Or possibly even longer knowing Grace. He grimaces. "Oh, God… You're never going to let me forget that, are you?"

"Not if we both live to be a hundred," she tells him solemnly.

And it finally dawns on Boyd that the situation – and her mood – has subtly changed, that he's now being gently but very expertly played. That as far as Grace Foley is concerned the whole damn thing is pretty much a _fait accompli_. Never overly fond of being teased by anyone, let alone by her, he instinctively starts to bristle. Lifting his chin an unconscious fraction, he says, "Why do I get the feeling I'm being taken for a complete ride here, Grace?"

The look she gives him is one of wide-eyed innocence. "I don't know what you mean."

She does. He knows damn _well_ she does. The painkillers finally seem to be working because for the first time since Boyd reluctantly opened his eyes to Sunday morning he thinks he might just about be able to move with moderate speed and precision. And forgetting all about attempting diplomatic apologies and just pouncing on the wretched woman is starting to look like a very appealing idea indeed. He suspects he won't meet with much resistance if he does – but perhaps that, too, will be playing straight into her hands. She thinks she knows him so well… Though, of course, she _does_ know him very well, and anyway, she's a damned psychologist, so…

He probably could outwit her if he really tried. Maybe. She's extremely smart, no question, but although he's no intellectual, he's not exactly stupid himself, and he's crafty, too. Cunning. A lot more Machiavellian than she'll ever be. It's not in her nature to be sly, and that's where his main advantage lies. Ferociously intelligent and uncannily good at second-guessing him Grace may very well be, but –

But.

_But_… this is not a battle. Is it?

It's not. However used to spatting and sparring they have become over the last four or more years, this is no battleground. The thought allows Boyd a sudden latitude of thought, and against the odds he feels himself perceptibly relaxing. Grace is still regarding him with a mixture of tolerant amusement and mild bemusement, as if she's not quite sure what his next move will be. She knows him, oh yes – but she also knows just how unpredictable he can be.

This is _not_ a battle. It's not even a skirmish.

"So?" he asks abruptly, intentionally trying to throw her off balance.

It works. Not spectacularly, but she is perplexed as she counters, "So…?"

"'You and me, babe'…?" he throws straight back at her, the devilment rising within him. It's always been a bit of a problem, his propensity for cussedness, for entirely inappropriate mischief and misbehaviour. Definitely not what _anyone_ has a right to expect from a senior police officer with a considerable weight of responsibility resting on his broad shoulders. But it's Sunday morning and they are a long, long way from the CCU's subterranean headquarters.

"Out," Grace says simply, lifting a hand to point at the bedroom door.

Boyd grins at her and he really doesn't care whether she interprets his expression as insolent, immature or merely incredibly infuriating. She's enjoyed his pathetic suffering for altogether too long, and now the brutal hangover's fading – and the cringing embarrassment along with it – he's beginning to find his stride again. "_You_ invited me in. Make your mind up, Grace – do you want me in your bed… room, or not?"

"Not," she says stubbornly.

Boyd doesn't believe her for a moment. He remembers the force and enthusiasm with which she kissed him back. Still grinning he inquires, "Really? So, what… I should maybe go and give Greta a call after all?"

Her eyes narrow. "Not if you know what's good for you."

He manages not to laugh. Manages to say gravely, "I see. Well – "

"Stop talking," Grace interrupts, suddenly magnificently haughty. "I thought you were a man of action?"

He starts to grin again. But for an entirely different reason. "Oh, I _am_."

"Well, to coin a phrase, Boyd, 'how about it'?"

It doesn't occur to Boyd to argue. And he's more than happy to pick up from where he left off the night before. Though with a little more delicacy and finesse, given his currently sober state. He closes on Grace rapidly before she can even think about changing her mind.

…And very quickly remembers exactly why, given enough Dutch courage, he was prepared to make such an idiot of himself for her. And why he almost certainly would again.

Though he thinks he'd draw the line at singing. Probably.

_- the end -_

* * *

_A lovestruck Romeo sings a streetsuss serenade_

_Laying everybody low with a lovesong that he made_

_Finds a convenient streetlight steps out of the shade_

_Says something like you and me babe how about it?_

- Dire Straits, "Romeo and Juliet"


End file.
